


Home Is Where The Heart Is

by LondonGypsy



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: DaddyBatch, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, unusual life arrangements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The OFC muses about her (unorthodox) life with Benedict.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is Where The Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little drabble, inspired by his glasses (again).  
> Funnily they aren't even in it but hey, anything that keeps the Muse going is fine by me. 
> 
> As always: Thank you Barawen for the superquick Britpick/Beta.

Watching him move around the house is the greatest joy I have. 

Watching him do all the ordinary things are what I miss the most when he's not home. 

Watching him sort through his mail, absently muttering under his breath. 

Watching him scan lazily through the bookshelves, trying to pick something to spend an hour or two with. 

Watching him just wander around the sitting room, his elegant fingers briefly touching the sofa, the table, the mantelpiece, as if getting used to it again after a particularly long absence. 

But most of all I just enjoy his presence, knowing whenever I look up, he's there. 

Sometimes he's deep in thought, looking out the window on a rainy afternoon, eyes hazy and his lithe body utterly relaxed in his seat. 

Sometimes he's bursting with energy, wanting to do three things at the same time and of course failing, and not caring, laughing at his own silliness. 

Sometimes he's far far away, working on something so concentrated that I almost hear the cogs in his brain turn. 

But always there. 

In the same room as me. 

And I only have to get up and walk over and I can wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, lean me face against his hair. 

And it'll make him smile and hum softly, his large hands settle on my hips or around my waist and pull me closer. 

We can spend countless minutes like that, lost in each other's embrace, breathing the same air, sharing precious time together. 

When he’s been gone for a overly long time, I need this to get used to having him home again. 

I never pick him up from his journeys, I always await him at home. 

He comes in, never calling out for me, only closing the door carefully behind him but I always know. 

It's like sensing his presence, invading an empty space, the void of the house suddenly filling with life. 

It always makes me smile and I stop what I am doing. 

When I reach the front door, he's there, waiting patiently, smiling that boyish smile at me. 

"Hi," he says. 

Nothing else. 

"Hello Stranger," is my reply. 

Always. 

He takes one step towards me, waits for me to do the same. 

It's like a dance, slow and hesitant at first, trading the first shy kiss right there in the hallway. 

And it always feels like a first kiss, a little awkward, a little clumsy. 

I let my hands trail over his body, remembering the lines of his back, his shoulders, his neck. 

I lean back, my gaze roaming over his beautiful face, noticing a few more lines around his all seeing eyes, the current colour of his silky curls. 

I take his face in my hands, fingertip tracing over pale warm skin, memorising shape and texture of his brows and cheeks and ears. 

Sliding my hands into his hair, short or long, curly or straight, I pull him down once more, kissing him softly, relearning the taste of his lips, breathing in his scent.  

"Welcome home," I whisper against his mouth. 

His smile widens, his eyes sparkle and I know he's arrived. 

Depending on how long he was gone, it takes a while to fully settle back. 

I live my life without him most of the time, have it arranged to my personal benefit. 

But he's a part of it, of me as I am of him and his life.

We don't speak much in the first few moments back together. 

We let our bodies do the talking: hands caressing, fingertips grazing, lips touching and they remember better than any words could do. 

It's like gently adjusting two halves of a whole back together, letting our hearts slot back to where they belong until they beat in sync again.

It's usually him who breaks the silence. 

"How long?" 

And I tell him; I can always tell how long he was gone. 

Three days. 

Two weeks. 

One and a half months.  

And he sighs, pulling me tightly against his chest, his head resting on mine, leaving no space between us. 

"Too long?" 

And I nod while I say 'no'. 

Every second I'm separated from him is too long but I know he needs it, needs to be away to do the work he devoted himself to long before we met. 

As much as I miss him, it's all forgotten when he's back, his strong arms holding me safely, his steady breath against my temple the only thing I need. 

"Come with me next time." 

I smile against his neck, kiss the hollow spot below his neck, feel his pulse against my lips.  

"Maybe." 

We both know it's not happening but we can't start our lives again before we've said it. 

He sighs again, pulls me impossibly closer, his hands, his wonderful big hands, warm and certain caress the back of my head. 

A few more heartbeats before he lets go, his gaze intensely searching my face, making my breath catch. 

"I love you." 

I rest my hand over his heart, meeting his eyes. 

"I love you." 

Stepping away from each other, he takes whatever luggage he has with him and walks into the sitting room. 

And I follow him. 

I have him back. 

For a while. 

 

"So, he's back then?" 

"Hm, somebody's tracking too many gossip sites again?" 

"Och hush, it was all over the web, trying to hide that angelic face of his behind those hideous glasses and that ugly hat." 

I switch the phone to the other side, glancing out into the garden where the owner of said angelic face is wandering around, enjoying the late autumn sun. 

"He was tired, a 14 hour flight can do that to you. I'd like to see you being harassed by paps..." 

"Yeah yeah, I get it, bad paps. Never mind that, have you told him yet?" 

Leaning against the window-frame, I outline his form through the glass. 

"No. He's just got back and not fully settled." 

"Love, you can't wait forever." 

"I know. Soon." 

A sigh on the other end. 

"When does he leave again?" 

I shrug. 

"I don't know. He didn't say." 

But then again, he never does. Never tells me how much time we still have until a few hours before he has to go. 

'It's enough when one of us is counting the hours' he's said in the beginning. 

I'm okay with that. 

"Oh Honey, why are you doing that to yourself? It's eating you alive and you know it." 

Smiling I shake my head. Nobody really understands it. But that's fine, we do. 

“I’ll see you next week," I say, ignoring her annoyed huff. 

"Fine," she grumbles, "Thursday, yes?" 

"Thursday," I confirm, "3 pm sharp." 

"Take care and say hello to Mr Moviestar from me." 

"I will. Bye." 

Putting the phone on the table I sit on the wide window sill, watching him stroll around aimlessly. 

I know I have to talk to him but as I said, he's just got home.  

It's funny, the first days we don't talk much. 

Sure, he tells me stories from set, or wherever he has been, makes me laugh with his imitations of colleagues and people he's met. 

In return I tell him what happened to me while he was away.  

But it's hesitant and slow, almost reluctant, like making small talk with someone you just met.  

The real conversations always start at night, in the dark of an evening on the sofa, in bed, cuddled together under a warm duvet.

In those quiet hours when everyone else is asleep we talk. 

About how I missed him so much, I've slept in his shirt for three days straight until his scent was gone. 

About how he stays up through dawn even though he's dead tired from jet-lag, from working all through the day, just because he knows how much I love watching the sun rise. 

About how his random texts at the most unusual times always make me smile no matter what he's writing. 

About how he smokes too much when I'm not there to remind him to take it easy and then feels ill from too much nicotine. 

About how we never dream about the other one and how one song can trigger the most vivid daydreams and we get lost in our own heads until somebody pulls us back into reality. 

We're such an odd couple. People always react either amused or slightly shocked when they find out about our life arrangement. 

They just can't understand that I don't accompany him. 

"But you work at home, you can do that anywhere." 

"He wants you with him so badly, it's painful to see him pining for you when you're not there.

"How can you let him travel the world and not want to be with him?" 

I've given up trying to explain, nobody understands it.

We live in the moment, never looking back, barely ahead and we're happy like that. 

Focusing on the now, my eyes search the man in the garden.

He has stopped his meandering, standing in the middle of the wide green. 

His face is turned towards the sun, eyes closed, a blissful smile on his full lips. 

It's late already, grey shadows are growing larger under the bushes and trees but where he stands the sun's still throwing its warm beams on him. 

He looks like an apparition, a sun god, bathed in golden light, a copper shimmer dancing over his auburn hair, the pale skin of his face and neck glowing almost unearthly. 

He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, it makes my heart ache. 

His lean body casts a fuzzy shadow behind him, even leaner. 

He's wearing old jeans and a similarly old shirt, his feet are bare despite the chill in the air. 

I can see his long toes, how they dig into the earth beneath his soles, his fingers unconsciously mirroring the movement. 

I smile. 

He's reconnecting, grounding himself back into a shared life. I've seen him do that a few times, slowing himself down again. 

His life outside this house is hectic: always on the move, meetings, appointments, shoots, tight schedules to be met. 

Although he chose his profession, knowing full well its busyness, its frenzied nature, he also lives for this: the quietness, the trance-like state outside his job. 

There's so much contradiction within him, things that normally don't mix, that make him exactly the outstanding human being he is. 

I lean my head against the window frame, my fingers tracing the outlines of his figure through the glass. 

He's got the soul of a dreamer and the spirit of an explorer. 

People don't know it but that's the main reason he can't be on time: he gets distracted so easily. Anything worthy of his natural curiosity can derail his thoughts, his entire attention suddenly on the one thing that catches his eye, his mind, and keeps it until he's observed and dissected every single part of it. 

I've watched him spend hours in stasis, perfectly still, only his alert, wise eyes dancing through the space in front of him. 

And then there are times when he just explodes into action, a flurry of motions and words, talking a mile an hour, his mouth barely able to keep up with his brain. 

He's still now, standing in the last few beams of sunlight streaming through the branches of the trees, giving him an aura of divinity, his head surrounded by a corona of brass fire. 

I trace the outline of his profile with my eyes, drinking in the raw beauty of him: the long limps, invisible but toned muscles, strong and perfectly controlled if needed. His back, straight and upright even though he's fully relaxed, entirely resting in himself. Everything he does, he does with a calm ease and a quiet elegance that makes heads turn and people wonder how such a tall, lanky man can be so graceful. 

His hair looks disheveled, framing a face I know better than my own.

If I didn't know, I couldn't tell whether he's 20 or 40, his profile looks ageless in the dying light of the day. 

Sensing me, his lids flutter open, his head turns towards the window I'm sitting at. Even through the distance his gaze is piercing and clear, and a slow smile plays over his lips. 

"Come inside," I mouth and he nods hazily. 

I leave the window and him, knowing it'll take a few more minutes for him to eventually come inside. 

I'm putting the last touches to dinner when he wanders in 15 minutes later, leaving dirty footprints on the floor. 

His hand is cool when it brushes over my back in passing as he starts helping me lay the table. 

Taking the glass out of my hand, he ushers me wordlessly to sit. 

I watch as he fills our plates and slides into the seat opposite of me, the most peaceful expression on his face as he smiles at me. 

"Smells fantastic," he says, his voice a bit husky from disuse. 

I feel goosebumps appear on my bare arms. It makes his smile turn a bit darker, his eyes suddenly losing their serene look. 

He tilts his head, his sharp gaze roaming over me intensely and his eyes widen. 

"What is it, my darling?" 

His tone is carefully neutral, only he could sense my well hidden nervousness. 

I lay down my fork, sudden waves of anxiety making my hands tremble. 

I've been trying to delay this conversation, been wanting to give him more time to fully arrive home but he knows me too well, feels that's something is not right. 

His body tenses as he feels the shift in the atmosphere and reaches over the table, taking my hand in his. 

His touch instantly calms me and our fingers entwine tightly. 

"There is something I need to tell you." 

"You can tell me anything." 

"I know. It's just that it's going to change everything, our entire life. Yours more than mine." 

"Now you're scaring me."  

But the smile flickering over his face is assuring, giving me strength. 

I look at him, my eyes wandering over his face, his oddly coloured eyes under gently swung brows, his straight nose, his perfectly shaped mouth. 

I know every freckle, every spot by heart, know how sensitive that spot just below his jaw is, know how to bite the shell of his ear to make him sigh longingly, know how to kiss his neck to make him forget everything. 

"God, you're so beautiful," I whisper, the overwhelming need to tell him taking over my mind. 

His brows narrow, a faint blush colouring his cheeks but his smile widens. 

"That's not what you wanted to tell me," he replies flattered yet confused. 

"No, but you're just so goddamn beautiful it takes my breath away." 

The flush on his face deepens; it's very rare that I say it face to face like this in the bright light of our kitchen. 

"Sorry. Sometimes I can't believe you're mine." 

It always surprises me how easily I can make him look as flustered as he is right now with only few words. 

He swallows hard and opens his mouth but before he can say anything, I lay a finger on his lips. 

"Don't. Please. I know what you want to say. Don't. Because it will make _me_  blush and then I'll forget what I wanted to say and that wouldn't be fair." 

He closes his mouth, confusion radiating off of him in heavy waves. 

I take my hand away and slip it in my pocket, closing it around the item inside. It's been burning a hole in my side since the moment I put it there. 

Slowly I pull my hand back out, laying it on the table between us. 

When I carefully push it further towards him, he automatically covers the grainy black and white photo with his own hand, his eyes searching my face frantically. 

I hold his gaze but doesn't say anything. 

His slender fingers slide carefully around the edges of the small photograph, eventually lifting his hand, revealing the blurry image. 

I can see his face change as he leans closer, squinting against the reflection from the lamp on it, can see as realisation hits him. 

His gasp is loud and his always steady hand is trembling as he takes the photo, holding it like the most precious thing in the world. 

Which it is. 

"Is that...?" 

His voice breaks as he puts it back on the table, laying both hands over it, looking at me with hopeful eyes. 

I only nod, the nervousness, the anxiety gone, replaced by warmth as the most breathtaking, most enthralling smile blooms on his face. 

He's up and around the table in a heartbeat, pulling me up, almost crushing me in his arms, hugging me so tight I can't breathe. 

It lasts only for a moment before he lets go, panic clearly written in his features. 

"Shit, I shouldn't...too tight...sorry..." 

I stop his babbling with a finger on his lips, shaking my head. 

"I won't break. It's okay." 

Sliding my finger into his hair I pull him into a kiss, deep and slow. 

It takes a second for him to respond but when he does, he kisses me with a fervour and a passion that makes my heart skip. 

His arms wrap around me again, pulling me closer, his tongue hot and wet against mine, his breath erratic, his body shaking. 

When he lets go and leans back, his eyes shimmer dark blue and damp. He blinks rapidly and I have to swallow around the lump in my throat at the unadulterated joy in his face. 

Suddenly he sinks gracefully to his knees, pressing his face against my stomach, his hands clinging to my waist, digging almost painfully in my flesh. 

"Hello there," he whispers and I have to blink tears away; I've never heard him like this. His voice is broken and thick with emotions, the words hushed against my midst and yet I can hear all the things he doesn't say. 

Two little words but they're holding all the promises in the world, carrying more love than one single man should be able to give. 

And yet, I know he just lost his heart and his soul, devoted it to the tiny being growing inside me, barely there and already the most beloved human on this earth. 

He's muttering words against my stomach, mere breaths than actual sentences and I don't understand a single thing but I feel them, feel them resonating through my body, earth shattering in their fidelity. 

Hushed vows, promises he'll keep and if it's the very last thing he does. 

My hands have settled on his head, carding through his tousled curls, caressing his warm skin, easing the first shock. 

Suddenly he jerks back, turning his face up, his eyes swimming, his face so heartbreakingly vulnerable my throat closes up. I can see everything, every single emotion, his soul is bared right before me and it's hardly to endure. 

"I love you. I love you so much." 

I faintly notice that I am shaking, trembling heavily but it doesn't matter. 

Nothing matters but this very moment. 

Seeing the overflowing love in his eyes, the all encompassing worship on his face, it's all there, and so much more, and I know, we're going to be okay. 

Pressing a kiss right to the middle of my stomach he scrambles back up on his feet, leading me back to my chair and I fall down hard, my legs simply giving out on me. 

He doesn't bother with a chair, only slides back down to the floor, resting his chin on my knee. 

"How long?" he asks hoarsely, clearing his throat. 

"Four weeks." 

He'd been gone for five; I’d found out a few days after he'd left. 

"And you didn't call me?" 

There's no accusation in his voice, just curiosity. 

I shake my head. 

"How was I supposed to tell you over the phone?" 

He nods, knowing full well we never discuss emotional things when we're not in the same room. 

Leaning his cheek against my leg, he falls silent. 

I give him time; he needs it, needs to process, needs to get used to the fact that he's going to be a father. 

After a while I lean down, press a kiss in his wild hair and push him back a bit. 

"I want to show you something." 

"There's more?" 

"Only a little bit." 

I stand and he jumps to his feet, sudden energy buzzing through his body. 

I hide my smile; he's going to be a like this for the next months, I know him well enough. 

Taking his hand, our fingers instantly tangle together, holding each other tightly and I lead him through the kitchen, out into the hall and up the stairs. 

At the end of the hallway is a spare room we barely use; it had been a rudimentary office but he hardly uses it, rather works in the sitting room or on the terrace if the weather was amiable. 

Now we have a better use for it. 

"I've been working on something," I say quietly and push the door open, taking a step back so he can peak inside. 

A huffed "Oh" escapes his lips as he slowly enters the room. 

I had enough time to renovate the room, paint the walls, design the ceiling. 

He's always loved the night sky, the winter nights more than summer so I tried to capture its beauty, transfer it inside. 

The walls are blue, broken by white, purple and grey, light clouds in a clear night. The ceiling was tough: I didn't want the usual stars but rather the real thing. Tiny dots are spread over a wide space, big and small, almost dizzying in their clarity. It took me two weeks before I was satisfied with it.

I haven't bought anything yet so the room's still empty, only a drawer stands by the big window, a single picture frame - also empty - hanging next to the door. 

Benedict slowly spins around, his eyes taking in every little detail before he stops, his face an image of pure delight. 

"This is the most amazing thing I have ever seen." 

"I'm glad you like it. I was afraid it's too dark but we can install a few more lights." 

"It's perfect." 

He beckons me over and I slip my arms around him, feeling his warmth and he wraps my into a gentle hug, kissing the top of my head. 

"Perfect." 

His body is still thrumming but it's not the excited energy I felt earlier but a constant buzz, contained for a while. 

"If you stay long enough, I have an appointment next week." 

"When?" 

"Thursday." 

"What time?" 

"3 pm." 

"I'll be there." 

And I know he will. 

I don't know when he'll leave again. I don't know when he'll be back. 

But I know with the certainty of my love for him, that he won't miss a single appointment, won't miss one important date in the future. 

He'll be there. 

And even if he'll never give up his work, the first love of his life, the second one, not even born yet, will always be the first priority in everything. 

 

Not much has changed. 

He's gone for days, weeks, months. 

I never pick him up, I always await him at home. 

He comes in, quietly closing the door behind him, waiting patiently. 

His presence fills the rooms, the space of the house, no longer void but still missing him when he's not there. 

I greet him in the hall. 

"Hi," he says. 

"Hello Stranger." 

We kiss, a little awkward, a little shy, almost like a first kiss. 

He squats down then, opening his arms and it's her sign, running up from the corner where she's been waiting. 

There's squeals and smoochy kisses, giggles and tiny fingers, holding tightly to much larger hands. 

"Welcome home, Daddy." 

A deep loving look into my eyes, past a head of wild ginger curls. 

"How long?" 

I smile, not saying a word, nodding towards his daughter.

"Too long, Daddy, way too long." 

Months, weeks, days melt away and he laughs, carefree and easy, the most beautiful sound in the world.  

"Well, I guess I have to make up for it then." 

Furious nodding, grabbing hands, insistent pulling into the sitting room. 

I lean against the door frame, watching. 

Brushed hands in passing, a caress, a promise and I nod, smiling at the beloved face. 

Tonight he'll be mine but now he's hers. 

And I couldn't be happier. 

"I love you." 

A quick kiss before he's dragged along, a mouthed "I love you" and he's around the corner. 

I walk over to his luggage, setting it aside, briefly wondering when he's taking it out again. 

'Don't', I hear his deep baritone in my head and I agree. 

Now is not the time. 

And I follow my little family into the sitting room, living in the moment. 

 

 

 


End file.
